Page 105 of The Fake Husband Play
“I’ll always be your hero, Mama,” Mimi says with a sweet seriousness that has tears filling my eyes again. “Just like you’re my hero, and we’ll always stick together. And now Grammercy can stick with us, too.”
I nod, not trusting my voice for a beat. “That sounds perfect, baby. I couldn’t ask for better people to stick with. I love you both so much.”
I did it. I got to say the words I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to say, and then the nurse is at the door, wanting to check my vitals.
Not long after, the surgeon stops by on her way home, filling me in on everything that was done and assuring me that I should heal well, hopefully with minimal scarring since they used a procedure with tiny incisions and tinier cameras instead of cutting me completely open.
“But this could have gone badly,” the woman says,her tired eyes locked on mine. “The next time you’re in pain, ask for help sooner than later. It’s always the moms who wait too late and put themselves at risk. From now on, remember that you deserve the same kind of care you’d give your kiddo, okay?”
I nod. “I will. I promise. It was just…a bad habit. I haven’t always had someone I could turn to for help.”
“But you do now,” she says, casting an approving glance Grammercy’s way, where he’s sitting on the edge of the cot, Mimi once again passed out beside him. Turning back to me, the doctor whispers, “He’s a keeper, that one. The look on his face when I told him you’d come through surgery with flying colors was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in a long while. Seems like you two have something special.”
“We do,” I agree, smiling over her shoulder at my man.
He’s reallyminenow.
And I can’t wait to get started on our forever.
A “for real” forever this time.
Nothing fake or phony about it.
Epilogue
PARKER
Seven Months Later…
I hate weddings.
And love.
And tuxedos.
Okay, fine, I love weddings and love, I’m just cranky about romance at the moment. And I look incredible in a tux, butfuck, couldn’t they have had this renewal ceremony indoors in the air conditioning instead of out in Maison Monteleone’s courtyard?
I get that this is where they met,yada yada. But we’re only two days into June, and it’s already as hot as my big, saggy balls after a five-mile run.
I’m probably tremendously fertile and will make super-talented, good-looking babies someday, but my balls reallyaretoo much. They’re flat out swampy at the moment, right along with the rest of me.
Sweat pools at the base of my spine, soaking throughmy dress shirt and into the tux jacket that feels like a torture device in this Louisiana heat. Even with fans set up to stir the air, the humidity is intense.
But of course, Blue isn’t sweating. Not a fucking drop. He’s probably meditating the perspiration away or some shit. Or just willing himself not to sweat with the force of his Yoda vibes.
“Why aren’t you sweating?” I mutter. “Are you an alien?”
“Stop fidgeting,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips.
“I’m not fidgeting,” I whisper, tugging at my bow tie. “I’m suffocating. There’s a difference.”
I’m also suffering.
Because right there, across the aisle, the woman I’ve been dying to share air with again since October is completely ignoring me. Probably because I’m sweaty and gross. But I can’t help it! I’ve always been a sweater. Allegedly, my mother took me to the doctor when I was just four months old because she was so worried about how sweaty my feet were, especially considering I didn’t even wear shoes at the time.
But I have talcum powder and very good deodorant.
Even for my balls.
